Genetic Confession

I didn’t come for forgiveness. I came for a kidney.

​The air inside the confessional smelled of old cedar, floor wax, and the faint, lingering scent of frankincense. It was a heavy, suffocating smell—the kind that makes you realize how hard it is to breathe when your own body is slowly betraying you.

​I adjusted my weight on the wooden kneeler. Every movement felt like dragging my bones through wet sand. That’s what renal failure does to you; it turns your blood into a toxic sludge that your heart struggles to pump.

​I cleared my throat. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been four weeks since my last confession."

​A soft rustle came from behind the screen. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

​"Thank you for seeing me, Father. I..."

​"Amen," the voice prompted, patient and sandpaper-dry.

​"Oh, right... Amen. Sorry, I’m still learning 'Catholic.' It’s a bit of a steep curve."

​I heard a soft huff—not quite a laugh, but the ghost of one. "Learning?"

​"Yeah," I leaned closer to the screen. "Kinda like learning to eat broccoli. You tolerate the taste because you know it’s high in Vitamin B. You do it because it’s good for you."

​"Hmm," the Priest replied. "Well, Catholicism is good for the soul because it’s high in Vitamin G. God, that is."

​"Nice one, Father. Very 'Dad-joke' of you."

​There was a pause. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant hum of the city outside.

​"What are your confessions, my son?"

​I took a shaky breath. "I am an orphan."

​"To be an orphan is many things, but it is not a sin," the Priest said gently.

​"No. But my birth—or rather, my conception—is where the sin begins to take root."

​I told him about the military cadets. I told him about the dream of blowing things up and getting a free degree, only to have it snatched away by a mandatory physical. I described the dialysis machine—the "mechanical vampire" that kept me alive three days a week while I waited for a donor that wasn't coming.

​"My parents—the people who raised me—weren't a match," I whispered. "That’s how I found out I was adopted. They’d kept it a secret as part of the adoption agreement. But when my kidneys started failing, the truth was the only thing they had left to give me."

​"A heavy burden for one so young," the Priest murmured. "But surely, finding your biological roots is a blessing?"

​"God may be good, Father, but the timing was terrible. My birth mother passed away six weeks before I found her name. No father was listed on the birth certificate. Just a blank space where a man should have been."

​I told him about the apartment—the cramped, dusty studio I had to clean out as her only heir. I told him about the boxes of journals and the bundle of letters tied with a faded blue ribbon.

​"I found my mother’s diary," I said, my voice growing tighter. "And love letters from my biological father. But he never signed them with a full name. Just 'M.' It was a dead end. Or it should have been."

​"I sense a 'but,' my son."

​"But I’m a quick study. I pieced together the dates, the locations, the mentions of 'The Vineyard' and 'The Call.' I tracked 'M' down. I knew where he lived, where he worked. And I decided that if the law wouldn't help me find my father, I’d find him myself."

​The Priest’s voice sharpened. "Did you harm this man?"

​"No," I said. "I did something much more calculated. I infiltrated his life. I got a job where he works. I spent my weekends and late nights working side-by-side with him. I made him trust me."

​"And the sin?" the Priest asked, his voice echoing in the small space. "What did you steal?"

​"I stole his spit."

​A long silence. "His... spirit?"

​"No, Father. His saliva. I waited until he finished his coffee, and when he wasn't looking, I swabbed the rim of the cup. I sent his DNA to one of those internet labs. I lied on the forms. I falsified the records to get the comparison I needed."

​"And the results?"

​"Positive. He's the one. He’s the reason I’m here."

​I could hear the Priest’s breathing now—heavy and rhythmic.

​"Then why are you here, in this booth?" he asked. "If you found him, why not just speak to him? A simple conversation can heal many wounds."

​"It’s not that simple," I said, the words spilling out like a confession I’d been holding for a lifetime. "According to the diary, my mother was a Novitiate. She was going to be a nun. She met a young man—a seminarian—in her undergraduate studies. They fell in love, but they loved God more. Or they tried to."

​The Priest was silent. I mean, dead silent.

​"She left the convent when she found out she was pregnant," I continued. "She never told him. She didn't want to ruin his path to the priesthood. She let him go so he could serve the Lord. And he did. He’s been serving ever since."

​The silence in the booth became deafening. I could hear a faint trembling coming from the other side of the screen.

​"Father?" I whispered. "You still there?"

​A choked sound came through the wood. "Oliver?"

​I closed my eyes, a single tear tracing a path through the grime of the day. "Yes, Father. It’s me."

​The screen didn't feel like a barrier anymore; it felt like a bridge.

​"I thought I recognized your voice these last few weeks at the parish," the Priest—my father—stuttered. "I... I’m so sorry. If I had known... I loved her, Oliver. I truly loved her."

​"I know. The letters said as much."

​I stood up slowly, my knees popping. The weight of the secret was gone, but the weight of the renal failure remained.

​"Where do we go from here?" my father asked, his voice thick with an emotion that didn't belong in a formal confession. "I have a feeling three Hail Marys and an Act of Contrition aren't going to cut it."

​I leaned my forehead against the cool wood of the booth.

​"Probably not," I said softly. "But I hear you're a match, Father. Maybe the gift of a kidney might suffice."

​Behind the screen, I heard him sob—a sound of grief, relief, and a strange, terrifying kind of grace.

​"As I said," he whispered, "the Lord works in mysterious ways... my son."